


Publicly displayed

by hippocrates460



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fits with Canon, Holiday in Italy, It's hard but it's worth it, M/M, PDA, Working out the boundaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 04:24:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20687471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocrates460/pseuds/hippocrates460
Summary: "“I’m not one for public displays of affection, Gregory,” he says, voice tight, making a little space between them even as they stand in line for the priority security check. And he gets what he wants. There’s no affection in the little noise Greg makes, hurt all over his face. He collapses a little, where he was previously tall and relaxed, like Mycroft had punched him. The little noise comes back, and Mycroft realizes he’s trying to breathe, feels tears sting his own eyes at this transgression – but then they’re at the front of the line."For n_a, who bid on me in the Rupert Graves birthday auction. Thank you for your faith in me, and I'm so sorry to have taken so long.





	Publicly displayed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [n_a](https://archiveofourown.org/users/n_a/gifts).

He thinks constantly about how this must feel for Gregory, what it must be like. The secrecy, how he hides them away, how they never meet each other’s friends, and definitely no family. When they’re supposed to meet in public, he pretends something came up at work and sweet, gentle Greg - just texts him back to tell him it’s alright, I’ll get dinner started, anything you feel like?

Turns out Greg hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t known to pay attention to it? Maybe never really felt the need to be out in public all that much. Which means that when they’re at the airport together, still laughing at the girl who was made to put her bag of Cheetos through the x-ray, and Greg reaches for his hand, and Mycroft pulls it away, it’s not the next offense in a long list of unforgivables that Mycroft thinks it is.

“I’m not one for public displays of affection, Gregory,” he says, voice tight, making a little space between them even as they stand in the priority line. And he gets what he wants. There’s no affection in the little noise Greg makes, hurt all over his face. He collapses a little, where he was previously tall and relaxed, like Mycroft had punched him. The little noise comes back, and Mycroft realizes he’s trying to _breathe_, feels tears sting his own eyes at this transgression – but then they’re at the front of the line.

Greg seems to recover swiftly, not halting his movements at all as he unpacks and repacks the bits and bobs security wants to see. He shrugs his jacket back on with ease, and they don’t talk much as they head straight for the gate, where there is already a line for boarding. Mycroft got them seats all the way to the front, one between them as is common in business class on short flights. He stacks some things between them and doesn’t think much of it when Greg starts reading his book. He’s been working on it for days, sending Mycroft quotes here and there of things he finds interesting, of things they should go see while they’re in Italy. Mycroft turns on his Kindle.

When they’re in the air, and the flight attendants have started preparing to bring about the food trolley, Mycroft leans in a bit. “Anything interesting?” He asks, keeping his voice low. Greg shakes his head.

“How’s your research going?”

“Very well,” Mycroft finds himself starting to smile. His book is interesting and well-written. “This one is very helpful, I might try to arrange lunch with the author if you’d be alright.”

“’Course,” Greg mumbles, already turning back to his book. He’s normally more enthusiastic about things and – “I’ll chill at the pool or something.” Mycroft blinks, entirely involuntarily, and something about his surprise must show because Greg takes off his reading glasses to look at him properly. “What?”

“I meant – together,” Mycroft stammers, the author has enough publications in English to have at least enough understanding to be able to carry conversation over _lunch_ and Greg has been doing all this reading about Italian art too and, “I thought you might like it?”

Something happens to Greg’s face, his jaw tightens, his nose twitches. He swallows something down, and shakes his head as if to let something go. But Mycroft can’t let it go. “No?”

“He’ll know, you know,” Greg says, and Mycroft just blinks at him, feeling the short night, the exhaustion that comes after excitement. He’ll know what? “He’ll figure out we’re together if we show up to lunch the two of us,” Greg clarifies. And Mycroft still doesn’t get it, which makes Greg’s jaw tighter, and his nose twitchier. “Did you book us separate hotel rooms?”

Cruel. Mycroft sits back in his seat. Dizzy, a bit. Probably from the flying. His ears are rushing. Probably also from the plane. He tries to get back to his book and rereads the same passage over and over. It’s a good thing it’s a short flight.

Greg takes the reservation from his hand when they’re ushered into the little airport office of the rental company. He flirts with the young attendant until she gives them the best and newest car they have, and grins triumphantly when they see it. It’s a beautiful car. Greg takes the driver’s seat, and sets up the navigation from his phone, and Mycroft feels it sting. The trip is short but gorgeous, and they don’t speak at all.

After they park, and check in to the hotel (Greg carrying the bags, Mycroft doing the talking, no need for upgrades when you paid for the best), Greg stands on the balcony, frumpy from the plane, still beautiful. The entirety of the Italian countryside at his feet. He turns around when he realizes Mycroft is staring at him.

“Ready to talk?” He asks, and Mycroft hadn’t quite realized that that was an option. He’d imagined silence until the hurt wasn’t so sharp anymore. He’d thought about olive branches, a topic they like to talk about, a food they like to share. He’d hoped for slowly making their way back to being comfortable around each other again. He’s stunned into nodding. 

“I’m really sorry for what I said on the plane,” Greg starts, sitting down on the corner of the bed. He unties his shoe laces like he has no intention of going anywhere. “I said it knowing it would hurt you – in fact, I said it _to_ hurt you,” he turns big brown eyes on Mycroft, who tries to show any sort of emotion and finds his mask too hard to shake. “I should not have lashed out, and I promise I am working on it. I’d rather understand you than turn against you.” Mycroft is processing his words, probably looking some combination of _cold, aloof, Ice Man,_ when Greg frowns with concern. “Am I making sense?”

“Yes,” Mycroft promises, halfway between sitting down on the floor and begging for a hug. Standing tall instead. “Was that because I wouldn’t hold your _hand?_” He can’t help the hurt in his voice. 

“Sit,” Greg tells him, and they move to the sofa in front of the fireplace. Mycroft takes his shoes off too. It’s hot out, and he wants a shower, to change into something more appropriate for the sun. The coolness coming from old solid walls will have to do for the moment, even if they don’t help the clamminess of his palms. “I was under the impression that we’d be going on a holiday _together_,” he says, emphasizing slowly and clearly, like Mycroft is a victim on the verge of a panic attack. Mycroft sits up straighter. “If I’d known I’d have to play straight for the duration, I wouldn’t have agreed to it.” It’s not true, he doesn’t want that, not at all. “Can you look at me?”

No, he can’t. “All that,” Mycroft hisses, “because you’re upset. Because I don’t want to make out at an airport.” He hears Greg gasp.

“Make out!” He complains. “To hold your hand! To be a couple somewhere other people can see us!”

“All of that,” Mycroft repeats, waving his arm, standing up. On the cold stone floor in his socks, the little gap between the sofa and the rug. “The attitude, the flirting, the quiet, that was because I wouldn’t _hold your hand_? Have you no sense of how _dangerous_ it is, how _visible_ we are at an airport, do you not – ”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” Greg cuts in. Holding up his hand when Mycroft wants to protest. “If you can’t understand that it hurt when you did that, we can’t have this conversation.” 

Mycroft sits down again. The edge of the sofa. Goes over his thoughts carefully. Greg wants to be with him. Be _with _him. _Be _with him. Be with _him_.

“Tell me it’s about nothing else but security,” Greg says, “and I’ll believe you. We’ll talk about how to keep safe and be comfortable.” He means it, he’s giving Mycroft the benefit of the doubt, but he’s right.

“It isn’t,” Mycroft sighs. He sits up straight and tense. The tremble in his voice involuntary. “It’s about... being comfortable in public. For me.”

“What if you – what about _me_?” Greg doesn’t sound angry, not anymore. “What about my comfort, what if I want to feel proud of you, of us, what if I want that?”

Mycroft’s mind brings up the image of chatty Greg, reaching out to touch, and the hurt on his face when Mycroft had pulled away. The eager suggestions of hanging out with friends, family – partnership. The way Greg hadn’t even thought poorly about Mycroft, not until he actually rejected him, and he feels himself melting a little. 

“Hey,” Greg puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes. “’m sorry to’ve started our trip with a fight.” Mycroft realizes that he hasn’t moved, and now he’s turning to blink at Greg. Who, bless him, looks worried.

“Not your fault,” he tries for levity in his voice and finds wobbly. “I’ve been a bit of a coward I’m afraid. You’re right of course.” He realizes he’s rather proud of Greg. Would possibly like to show him off. Regardless of how weak it’ll make him. Of course it matters how Greg feels about this.

He tries to explain, several times. Nothing of use comes out though. “It’s just – I’m not.” Deep breath. “I’m very sorry to have hurt you,” at least that part is true. “I would hope to, in the – the future...” What future? It’s only been a few months, won’t Greg get tired of him by then? “That is to say, to – ”

“Kiss?” Greg asks, and that’s rather a lovely idea. Before he realizes it, Mycroft has swung himself into Greg’s lap (needy) and started kissing him (even though he’s smelly) and when Greg wraps his arms around his waist, he sinks in all the way, with a heavy sigh (desperate). Greg hums appreciatively into Mycroft’s mouth, and they both deepen the kiss, tilting their heads, Mycroft’s hands firmly cradling Greg’s face (wanting to be closer still). “Alright?” Greg whispers after a while, into the humidity between them.

“Not at all,” Mycroft laughs, and Greg’s eyes twinkle back at him, picking up on his tone. “We’re in a gorgeous hotel, with an excellent bathtub, and we both smell like airplane.”

Greg laughs, and sniffs demonstrating at Mycroft, only stopping when Mycroft has to fight him off from smelling at his armpits, laughing so hard his stomach hurts. Greg’s hands still on him. “You smell like...” Greg ponders, as if he’s diagnosing Mycroft with something. Like a connoisseur he sniffs again. “Like Cheetos,” he decides. And then he races Mycroft to the bathroom.

It’s only much later, after dinner and several glasses of wine, and a very lovely day driving around in their very lovely car, that Mycroft finds the words. “At times,” he whispers into the dark between them, both of them wrapped up in each other and the heavenly bed. “At times I find it hard to believe you’d be with me, and I get so caught up in thinking how awful it would be if people knew that I’d had you and lost you. It makes me think it’d be easier if no one knew at all.”

“Is that why you won’t meet my friends?” Greg asks, and Mycroft nods. Hums a little when he realizes Greg won’t be able to see his nodding. “I think,” Greg says, very thoughtfully. “I understand.” Mycroft isn’t sure if he could, because Greg is brave and beautiful, but keeps listening anyway. “And I think if are seen by other people, it might make it easier to accept that this is real.” That makes sense.

“Let’s try,” he whispers. “I’d like nothing better than for this to work.” Honesty feels like he imagines jumping out of a plane would feel, much falling, and just as much flying.


End file.
